Chance Meeting and an Unreadable Map
by Aemillia
Summary: How Ben met Shanks and the adventure that followed
1. A Brief History and Courtly Love?

Author's Note:  First off, One Piece is the creation and property of Eiichiro Oda, and I in no way own or profit from this work.

Second, the real title is below.  FF.net decided it was too long so I had to come up with a short title for the site.  Finally, this is a fic about how Ben first met Shanks, several years before either met a certain Monkey D. Luffy.  Hopefully it's somewhat in keeping with the world Oda and characterizations that Oda created.  Oh, and for the record, he's stated that Ben is the smartest character in the One Piece universe, and I tried to reflect that.

**Ancient Parshem Script?! A Forgotten Tongue Leads to Buried Treasure!**

**Chapter 1: A Brief History and Courtly Love?**

Scholarship and learning had filled the first nineteen years of his life.  It figured that with two parents as well-respected professors at the University, he'd inherit some of their intelligence.  Ben had received all of it and more.  By the age of thirteen he'd received his first degree, in general biology.  A second followed in two years, this time in the dead language of Parshem.  Two more years passed,  and he earned a third, this time in astronomy.  The year he turned seventeen was spent at the docks of the University's island and on the waters surrounding it.  The sailors became accustomed to his questions, and he proved a quick study of all things nautical.  At eighteen, the University offered him a job, helping his old professor translate a series of newly discovered Parshem scrolls.  The work had gone far faster than expected, and he turned next to starting a degree in history, focusing his attention on the Grand Line.  But it turned out there was little available information.  Realizing that the only way to learn more was to go there himself, he sought various options to reach the fabled track.  

He had enlisted in the navy for two years, trying to determine whether the life of a marine would be for him.  A crack shot, wisdom, and having an imposing physical presence should have put him squarely on the command track.  But, it turned out the mentality of the navy was too rigid, too inflexible for his own broad way of thinking.  Plus, they had wanted him to cut his hair, and the uniform he had to wear made him feel like a walking target.  He'd drifted next to a merchant fleet, spending a year navigating West Blue for a man who dealt in liquor and wool.  It was steady work and kept him upon the sea, but it was also tedious and boring.  Ben learned the hard way that he had little patience for dealing with slow-speaking farmers and dull-witted wine traders.  He'd returned home, re-enrolling at the University with plans to finish the degree he'd started three years ago.  

But the cloistered world of the school soon became small and stifling; even all the books in the greater library failed to soothe his wanderlust.  He wrote two treatises in his spare time: a discussion of the liquor network and the effects of bootlegging on the West Blue marketplace, and a psychological study of regimental mentality on marines at sea for more than six months.  He went to his classes fitfully, showing up to dazzle his professors for tests and avoiding the lecture halls like the plague four days out of five.  His parents were driven to distraction by his moodiness, his itchy feet, his need to conduct experiments at two in the morning when insomnia and strange ideas had gripped his brain.  

In desperation, his mother, a brilliant biologist in her own right and long a fellow at the University, contacted an old friend and colleague.  The man lived on the Red Line coast and was infamous for his unconventional studies and wild adventures encountered while conducting research.  He wrote back, saying he was forming an expedition to study weather phenomena and whatever else he ran across on the Grand Line.  He extended an invitation to Ben directly, asking him if he wanted to serve as the ship's naturalist and conduct his own research.  His mother wasn't urging the position on him, given the danger of traveling on the Grand Line, but she managed to let him know the offer was something of an honor.  

Ben was sitting slumped in the back corner of Magellan's, a favorite hangout of the local students.  It was a great place to party, but the bar was also specially sound-proofed, making it a good place for studying in the weeks before final exams.  The letter from his mother's friend was held loosely in one hand, his fifth pint of the evening in the other.  The offer was tempting, very tempting.  He desperately needed to be back at sea.  His parents may have been content, comfortably anchored to their friends and their work at the University, but Ben was not.  He sometimes wondered if it was his father's fault, if a childhood filled with myths and histories hadn't led to his adult need to see these lands from the tales for himself.  To go to the Grand Line, it was a dream it seemed he'd always had.  And now that dream was within his grasp.  All he had to do was accept the naturalist position and he'd be set to go.  He'd even be a fellow, a scholar in his own right, not a mere research assistant.  His mouth quirked up at the thought of all the papers he could write, the possible discoveries just waiting to be made.  But…and there was a but, even to this seemingly perfect opportunity.  

Did he really want to be stuck on a ship with men twice his age and more for who knew how many years?  Sure there would be sailors, a hired crew to man the research vessel.  But, would those men accept him?  He would be on board as a scholar, an employer, not as a fellow mate.  Even though he was fully capable to handle a ship, would the crew allow him to help?  Or would they resent his presence and his skills?  Ben already knew he couldn't spend all his time with the other researchers.  The next youngest scholar aboard would be his mother's friend and was around her age of fifty-two.  The oldest was some mathematician and cartographer who was in his early seventies.  Ben was all too familiar with the hidebound attitudes of his elders.  While many at the University were liberal in their thinking, Ben had long ago noticed that around sixty or so, the thought processes of most of the professors seemed to become fixed, not allowing new ideas to mesh with the one's they'd held dear for years.  Trapped on a ship for an unknown span of time with a group of white-haired, stodgy conservatives was NOT appealing.  He'd spent too much time already isolated from people his own age.  

He'd been between the ages of most of his fellow marine recruits; several years older than the idealistic, naïve fishermen's sons and farmers' children and younger than the sailors who'd grown weary of the routines and risks of the merchant world, enlisting for excitement, safety, or a steady paycheck.  The merchant fleet was filled with men and a few women in their mid-thirties.  They hadn't treated him like a child, but they weren't very welcoming either.  Home at the University, his own reputation and that of his parents kept the majority of the students away.  The few who approached him were almost always looking to curry favor with one or both of his parents.  What he really wanted was to find some friends around his own age, people who were reasonably intelligent and didn't know too much about his own education, people who wanted to have adventures on the sea, who wanted to go to the Grand Line because it was there just waiting to be explored. 

It was annoying to admit it to himself, but he was lonely.  Books and learning had filled his early years, his parents and his professors had filled in the role of playmate through his childhood.  But now he had been out in the world, had held several different jobs for himself, had seen what life was like on islands not steeped in scrolls and theories like the University.  He'd missed out on the age for imaginary friends and hide n' seek, the time for playing navy and pirates.  He'd also missed out on stolen drinks and peeking on girls, of being one of a group of friends who did everything together.  He'd be damned if he'd spend more time with his parents' friends.  It was time to go and find some of his own.  His mind made up, he knew there was no way he could accept the offer from his mother's colleague.  He eased up from his seat in the quiet booth.  It would be best to inform the man right away that he was not interested.  He didn't quite know what he would do instead, but it might be for the best if he left the University again.  He paid his tab with a nod to the barkeep and pushed through the heavy doors, leaving the quiet of the bar behind.  

Outside, the air was unusually full of sound, a small crowd of rough-looking men gathered around the entrance to Nelson's Pub.  That bar generally catered to sailors and visitors to the island and had a reputation of being somewhat dangerous.  Unfortunately, and somewhat oddly as he'd always thought, the bar was farther inland than the one he'd just exited.  There was only one road on the swampy  island and it led directly to the University.  If he wanted to get back home he'd have to make his way through the group of rowdies or else risk snake bite and mud-filled shoes by tramping around the back way.  He stood there, poised in indecision before he shook his head at his own thoughts.  'When did I get so suspicious?  It's more than likely that I can pass by undisturbed.  Besides, how would I explain a snake bite to Mother at this hour?' Mind made up, he strode up the slight incline of the road, hugging the walls of the shops on the side farthest from Nelson's.  The din fell ominously silent just as he drew even with the entrance to the bar.  It seemed to happen in slow motion, the way the crowd parted before him as the doors flew open from the impact of a body.  He had time to notice a ratty straw hat tumbling to the dusty street before he was nearly knocked off his feet.  He reacted without thinking, arms catching the body that had hurtled towards him even as he dropped to one knee under the shock of sudden weight.  He found himself looking down into a pair of warm brown eyes, framed by the reddest hair he'd ever seen.  

"Mmm, my hero," the man drawled, amusement at being held like a swooning damsel evident in his tone.

Something like shock shook through his body, and he dropped the stranger abruptly, as if he had been burned.  The crowd around them was laughing now and pointing at him.  It was uncomfortable, feeling all these eyes on him.  A fat man in a bandana had picked up the fallen hat and was dusting it off awkwardly with his knuckles, his fingers involved in clutching an enormous turkey leg.  Ben rose to his feet, backing away slowly as the large stranger approached the fallen one currently laughing in the dust.  

"Here Captain.  You lost this when you left in such a hurry."

"Thanks."  The hat was taken, and the red-haired man placed it firmly over his face.  "I think I'll just take a short nap.  After all, if it hadn't been for my savior here, my lights would have been out anyway."  

The crowd laughed again, and Ben flushed, angry at being embarrassed and annoyed at the man for having chosen just that moment to get kicked out of the bar.  He turned to leave, tired of the unexpected attention and the odd teasing.  

"Going so soon?  My knight, My hero, do not forget your fair Rosalinda.  I shall remember you always, My Gareth!"  

He broke into a trot as the crowd roared with mirth.  He was sure that most of them had no idea what that man was saying.  It was an old poem, an ode to courtly love.  Having it said to him by that weird guy was uncomfortable, and he was positive he was being mocked.  

"What the hell?" he grumbled in annoyance.  "I prevent him from concussing, and instead of being grateful, all he can manage is to spout forgotten poetry to harass me.  Who the hell was that guy anyway?"

He picked up his pace, running up the road towards the sprawling bulk of the University and the safety of its ancient walls.  Back at Nelson's, a certain red-haired pirate captain finally decided he'd milked the moment for every last drop of humor.  He sat up, moving his hat to sit comfortably on his head.  The hand he'd thrown out to support himself felt unexpected smoothness, not the coarse grit of the road.  He looked at the letter in mild confusion, before tucking it into the sash around his waist.  

"It must be my hero's."  He grinned a little at the name.  The poor guy was obviously embarrassed by the name, but Shanks had already decided that he liked the flush of color his teasing put on the other man.  "I'll hunt him down tomorrow and return it."

That decided, he clambered to his feet and squared his shoulders before walking easily back into the wild party in full swing in Nelson's Pub.      


	2. Origins of the Map

**Chapter 2: Origins of the Map**  
  
The slender ray of light had been inching across the wooden floor for well over five hours. If it had been capable of emotion, the sunbeam would surely have been incredibly frustrated over its lack of success in waking the occupants of the cabin. It finally reached a seventy-three degree angle, striking the sleeper closest to the porthole directly between the eyes. Shanks snorted and threw a hand over his face, rocking his hammock slightly with the motion.  
  
"Ungh, bad idea."  
  
His stomach churned and threatened to empty itself. Swallowing rapidly to ward off his nausea, he eased gingerly into an upright position, carefully swinging his feet out and planting them on the floor. With this new motion, his head decided to take its turn in punishing him, throbbing and pounding like an entire foundry was at work inside his aching skull. The urge to just lie back down and pretend he'd never woken up was very strong, but there was an odd nagging feeling that he had something to do, some errands to accomplish. Shanks got to his feet, pleased that his knees were only shaking slightly. He wove a path between the ten other double-stacked hammocks, all but two occupied by loudly snoring pirates. He smiled at the sight of Pontoo, half sleeping on the floor and still clutching rum bottles in each fist.  
  
"Ooooh, really bad idea."  
  
Smiling moved his skin and muscles, and that made his head throb more. Clutching his head, he made it to the door, slipping out into the narrow corridor that ran below the main deck. He was sorely tempted to slam the door shut, but decided that the ensuing outcry would cause more head pain than he wanted to deal with at the moment. He sighed, mustering the willpower to climb the steep stairs that led to the outside. It would be bright; annoyingly, painfully sunny above deck, and he would just have to endure. One hand reached out and grabbed the railing, the other cupping over his eyes. Even with his hat, he'd want the extra protection. Another sigh, and he heaved himself up the stairs, wincing as the first bits of direct light began to warm his head and shoulders.  
  
"Captain! Good Morning!" The voice was loud and far too cheerful for Shanks' comfort.  
  
"Nnng, is it still morning?" He spoke barely above a whisper, hoping the other speaker would take the hint. But luck was not with him this day.  
  
"Yeah, it's just after eleven. Didn't think anybody'd be up before three. You all were really drunk last night."  
  
The last words were practically shouted in his ear, and Shanks abandoned his eyes to the light in order to throw his hands to his ears and aching head.  
  
"Shhhh," he hissed, cracking open an eyelid to direct a weak glare at the noisemaker.  
  
"Sorry." The scrawny boy in front of him grinned unapologetically.  
  
"Kid, I swear, one day I'm gonna toss you overboard if you don't learn to be sympathetic or at least quiet around a man suffering from indulgence."  
  
The boy crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue in response to the threat, but scampered just out of reach nonetheless.  
  
"Maybe if I could, ya know, experience the pain, I'd be nicer."  
  
Shanks sighed for the umpteenth time that morning. The argument was an old one, and not one he felt like rehashing at the moment.  
  
"Look, you're eleven, maybe twelve. I'm not even gonna try to take you to a bar. As for drinking on the ship, well, what kind of a captain would I be if I let my only cabin boy drink himself sick?"  
  
At that he staggered forward, one hand ruffling lightly through the boy's sandy hair. The kid ducked a bit under the touch, but smiled back at Shanks.  
  
"Yeah, ok. I guess I don' wanna look like somethin' a whale puked up anyhow."  
  
"That bad? At least I'm valuable."  
  
The boy looked at him in confusion.  
  
"You look like shit captain."  
  
"M'not awake enough to make jokes I guess. Anyhow, I did get int'a fight and a drinking contest last night."  
  
"Didja win?"  
  
"Mmm. The fight was a draw, and I won at drinking. I always win at drinking."  
  
He grinned then winced, remembering too late that smiling was currently a bad idea.  
  
"So kid, did anything happen 'round here last night?"  
  
"Nah, not really. I saw two, maybe three, other ships sail around to the back dock, didn't get a good luck at 'em. Otherwise it was borin' as hell."  
  
"Good."  
  
And it was. After all, they were here at the University's island for a reason, a reason they shared with another pirate crew. Nodding in the direction of the tiller, Shanks made his unsteady way from the stairs over to the helm, the kid trailing after him. The tiller was currently locked in position while the ship lay at anchor. After a quick scan of the area, Shanks unlocked it, kneeling down on the deck. One hand gently jiggled the tiller, the other slipped into the tiny revealed space, withdrawing a small oilskin pouch. The article he slipped quickly into a pocket, even as he re- locked the tiller and straightened. He glanced at his cabin boy who nodded slightly.  
  
"All clear." The words were soft, meant only for Shanks' ears.  
  
"Good."  
  
Shanks leaned casually against the dragon-headed tiller, satisfied his retrieval had gone unnoticed.  
  
"So," he said, addressing the boy. "Several ships came in last night?"  
  
The kid bobbed his head in agreement.  
  
"Yeah, but like I said, I didn't get a good look at any of 'em."  
  
"OK. I want you to go check them out. See if Habaland and his men slunk in like the dogs they are last night."  
  
The kid turned to go, a broad smile at the prospect of spying on his face. Shanks called after him.  
  
"Wait. Slow down. First I want you to go wake up one of the men, probably Jenkins, he drank the least. Get him to keep watch over the ship. Then you can go, but be careful. And," Shanks added, calling after the lad as he headed below deck. "No Picking Pockets!"  
  
He shook his head as the kid made an obscene gesture in reply. Alone on deck, he pulled the small pouch out of his pocket. Gently he drew open the drawstring closure and reached inside. The parchment crackled against his fingertips, brittle with age, as he eased it from the bag. It was a map, or at least part of one. The yellowing paper had a long, jagged edge where it had been torn. The other half was in the hands of his current rival, that bastard Habaland.  
  
By all rights, the entire map should have been his. The old pirate captain, Dead Eye Morse, had decided to retire to a tropical island in South Blue. But before he left, he wanted to hand over one of his greatest treasures. The map was old, everyone agreed on that. It was of a single island, one Morse had never been able to find. It had been part of the Silverfen horde, captured by Morse when the future Pirate King, Gold D. Roger had still been a simple crewman, albeit one with amazing talent. There was writing all over the map; it surrounded the drawing of the island and covered the back of the parchment. It was believed this would provide directions to the island on the map. The only problem was, Morse had never found a person capable of translating the script.  
  
He'd carried the map for forty years, asking about it at every port. Finally he had given up. The pretty young woman he had met in South Blue was waiting for him; he had a pile of gold, enough to live like a king several times over. But he couldn't just abandon the map and its mystery. He had decided to hold a race. Whoever was the first through the Tsuko Channel would receive the map. Shanks had entered his crew eagerly. He had just received the Wyvern, his pride and joy, and this would be a great opportunity to make a mark in West Blue. The race had been tough. They'd been shot at, boarded, nearly run aground. But although the Wyvern was small, his ship was sleek and fast, and his crew was brave and tough. The boarders hadn't stood a chance, and his new cannons had made quick work of the remaining ships that drew too close. In the end, it had been the final mile that was the true challenge.  
  
The Tsuko Channel had a reputation as one of the wildest stretches of ocean in West Blue. It ran between the desolate Isle of Mara and Surutan Island. Sheer rock walls made a canyon for the ocean to thunder through. No wider than one hundred feet in some places, the powerful Far West current pounded through the channel, sending any ships that entered rocketing headlong through the rocks. Besides being dangerously narrow, the inhabitants of both Mara and Surutan were decidedly unfriendly. Constantly at war with each other, both sides would join together to attack any ship that dared to pass. Raining boulders, spears, and arrows, the islanders would try to wreck any intruders along the reef in the center of the Channel. Then they'd descend, killing any survivors and going back to war over the spoils. And, if any captain was skilled enough to bring his ship and crew intact to the end of the canyon, there was one final hazard.  
  
A great whirlpool, called Karbydos by the islanders, and the Hell Hole by nearly everyone else, formed where the Far West current poured out of the Tsuko Channel and collided with the warm Southern Stream. The Hell Hole had long sucked sailors to their deaths. Only careful and skilled navigation would allow a ship to pass successfully around the swirling water. There was only one safe path across the whirlpool. With careful timing, a ship could enter Karbydos when the Far West current was at its swiftest. Every ten minutes or so, the combination of the two currents caused the Hell Hole to grow even deeper, making the Far West current flow even faster. If a ship entered at that moment, the force would send it hurtling across the top edges of the underwater cyclone. With luck, the speed would be enough to keep the ship from getting sucked down.  
  
Shanks had guided the Wyvern deftly through the Tsuko Channel. For once, his ship's small size had been an advantage. Where larger ships had run into the canyon walls, he'd slipped through with ease. After the first half mile, he'd left most of the other ships behind. The warring island tribes had ignored him, choosing to focus on the few larger ships still in pursuit. That left only the Hell Hole. He'd chosen to approach slowly, drawing as close to the sides of the Channel as he dared. He had his men anchor the ship to a large rock, waiting until the time was right. As the thunder of the water reached its loudest pitch, he had Lucky Roo cut the rope. Like a shot, the Wyvern skimmed across the water. With all his strength, Shanks had lain upon the tiller, cleaving a path along the outermost edge of the whirlpool. They had been nearly across, Morse's ship and the prize in site. Seemingly out of the Hell Hole itself, an iron hook had buried itself with a thunk in the center of the mast. Heavy black links led back to another ship, now entering the path of the whirlpool. Shanks had little choice. There was no way to hack through the chain, and he risked getting sucked back in if he chopped down the mast and its mainsail.  
  
Cursing, he had continued towards the finish line, towing the other ship safely through. Victory was nearly at hand when he felt the Wyvern slowing. The chain was being winched back, making him lose progress as the unwanted hitchhiker gained ground. In the end, the Wyvern had reached Morse first, the other ship immediately behind. Morse was a pirate of the old school. He had been delighted with Shanks' skill and also with the sneaky tactics used by the other ship. Not much larger than the Wyvern, the Lupo was captained by one Reno Habaland. A cocky, arrogant man, Shanks had disliked him from the beginning. Morse had declared that both ships were winners. He suggested that Shanks and Habaland team up. They were both young, unproven. But they were also skilled and clever. Perhaps together they would succeed where he had failed.  
  
But Habaland wanted nothing to do with Shanks. He said anyone stupid enough to be caught and used like Shanks had been was not worthy of being his partner. He'd snatched the map from Morse, ripping it down the centerin front of a shocked Morse. Shanks was sure the old pirate was going to have a heart attack. Habaland had stalked back to the Lupo, shouting about how he would find the treasure, even with only part of the guide, leaving one half of the map lying on the deck at Shanks' feet. Then and there Shanks had vowed to beat Habaland to the treasure. While the man hadn't taken the whole map, he had destroyed Morse's treasure in spite. No way would he allow that asshole to win. Morse had agreed, regretting his bestowal of victory on the rude young man. It was Morse who had suggested Shanks try the University. It was a long journey, all the way on the other side of the West Blue. It was isolated, far from any commercial shipping. Morse himself had never found the time for a visit, needing to supply his fleet and keep his men happy with preying on the wealthier parts of the ocean. Thus Shanks had headed east, dogged at every turn by Habaland.  
  
Shaking his head at the memories, he gingerly replaced the map fragment in the pouch, before depositing the pouch back in his pocket. Jenkins waved at him from the stairs as he walked back from the helm. The kid was long gone, vanished on his spying adventure while Shanks was wasting time. The morning was past; the sun was at its noon zenith, beating down on the deck of the Wyvern. It was time to leave. He had to go to the University, see if he could find someone, anyone, who could read the map.  
  
His head was still pounding, a pain sure to increase since he had to deal with...academics. He shuddered a little, wishing there were some other option. One hand stole into the folds of his sash, seeking the tiny bottle of one hundred proof whiskey he kept for just these kinds of occasions. A frown creased his face as he encountered not the reassuring smoothness of his bottle, but an unexpected crispness. He pulled out the folded paper, squinting at it in confusion. 'What the hell is...? Wait, that's right. It belongs to that guy.' Aloud he chuckled.  
  
"At least I get to pay a visit to my hero while I'm in that place. I'll look for him first. Maybe he can help with my language problem."  
  
That decided, Shanks headed to the side, swung over the rail, and climbed down the ladder. The prospect of teasing the man from last night had already brightened his day. So he headed up the lone dusty road, hangover reduced to a mere nuisance in the wake of his planned mischief.

**A/N:** I'm not sure of the name of Shanks' ship in One Piece. I know it's very large, with a dragon as the figurehead. I felt it was fitting that his first, much smaller ship be named after a smaller dragon, hence the Wyvern. Also, apologies for the lame joke earlier...Shanks and bad humor go hand in hand.


End file.
